Legion

That number... that impossible, overwhelming number of humans. It couldn't be expressed in any orc language; it simply broke their brains. It was "too many" on a scale that defied comprehension.

On such a vast stretch of land, measured in kilometers, the troops were able to form a line, a silver tide stretching to the horizon. Guided by the relentless, pounding drumbeats that seemed to shake the very earth, the human army marched in perfect, synchronized steps, a living wall. They covered each other, their formations shifting with a terrifying precision, blocking any possible escape route for the orcs, sealing them in like rats in a trap.

On the southern lake, a veritable armada of warships was sailing towards the lakeside at breakneck speed, their massive hulls cutting through the water. They moved parallel to the shore, their wooden gunports sliding open with a low groan, revealing the gaping maws of cannons, ready to unleash a hellfire of shelling.

"Where in the blazes did humans find so many elite troops?!" Grom couldn't help but roar, his voice a guttural mix of disbelief and dawning horror. After fighting with humans for so long, he could tell who were the seasoned killers and who were the fresh-faced farmers almost at a glance. It had nothing to do with fancy equipment or shiny armor.

Those who stood in a straight line but were crooked like a dog's hind leg? Those were the farmers, the greenhorns, practically delivering themselves on a silver platter to the orcs.

Those who were neatly organized, their formations crisp and unyielding whether they were charging or retreating? Those were, more often than not, the elite troops, the ones who knew how to dish out pain and take it.

Of course, there was also the "shiny armor" rule. If the army of Lordaeron had helmets and armor so polished you could see your reflection in them, Grom wouldn't have a headache, because those were probably just for show, a ceremonial guard, more interested in looking pretty than fighting.

But those whose armors were obviously much darker in color, dull with the grime of countless battles, and even had numerous dents and nicks on their plates and shields? Those were the veterans, the grizzled old dogs of war that the orcs least wanted to meet in a dark alley.

At this moment, at a single glance, Grom could see elite soldiers everywhere, hardened warriors who had fought in hundreds of battles, their eyes cold and unwavering!

The people in the north, wearing blood-red armor with white edges, were their old rivals, the Scarlet Crusade of Lordaeron, a fanatical bunch they'd clashed with more times than he could count.

To the northwest, flying the proud blue griffin flag with gold edges, was the Stormwind Kingdom Griffin Legion, the very troops Orgrim had mentioned countless times, always with a grudging respect.

To the west, carrying huge, brown tower shields that looked like portable walls and holding several spears even when marching, were the infantry of Dalaran. The infantry of Dalaran had never been the main event; the real show was the mage group, hidden like a viper behind them. If you couldn't crack the infantry's defense within three minutes, you'd be immediately taught a brutal lesson by the arcane fire raining down from the back lines.

Grom suddenly understood why Orgrim had wanted to attack the human barracks in the north. He wanted to fight his way out of this trap, to punch a hole through the human lines and rescue their Western Legion, who were probably getting their teeth kicked in!

Grom made the right decision almost instantly, a flash of tactical brilliance in the chaos. "Everyone, listen up!" he roared, his voice cutting through the din. "Abandon all siege equipment! We're attacking the red army in the north! Move it!"

"Correct" does not always mean "effective."

When Mograine, the stern, unyielding commander of the Scarlet Crusade, saw the orcs attacking them just as Anduin Lothar had predicted, the future legendary lord sneered, a grim, satisfied curl of his lip. "You will pay for the sin of destroying Silverpine Forest with your lives," he growled, his voice a low rumble.

The army, advancing with the precision of a well-oiled machine, stopped dead in their tracks the moment Alexandros Mograine raised his fist, a silent command. The warriors marching in the front, their faces grim, used the wicked spikes under their tower shields to fix the shields deeply into the thick, unsuspecting grass, creating an impenetrable wall of steel and wood.

Every five meters or so, a passage would be cleared on the battle line, a narrow gap allowing a group of half-grown peasant boys, looking terrified and wearing no armor, carrying only a basket, to run out quickly and pull the grass from the lawn directly in front of the battle line. It was a bizarre, yet strangely efficient, sight.

Up ahead, an old soldier with burn scars crisscrossing his face, looking like he'd been through a dozen wars, wet his index finger with saliva, raised his hand, and felt the wind direction and speed, a grizzled veteran's trick.

"Very good," he rasped, a grim satisfaction in his voice. "Just as expected, we have the upper hand. The wind's with us."

Just before the orc army arrived, the peasant boys, moving with surprising speed, pulled out all the grass, leaving a barren strip of earth, and retreated quickly, scrambling back to safety.

Then, a large group of strange-looking guys stepped out from the battle line, their silhouettes menacing. They carried huge iron cans on their backs, wore half a shield strapped to their chests, and had a large iron pipe jutting from their right waist. They looked like something out of a mad gnomish inventor's nightmare.

As soon as these bizarre figures appeared, the tribal commanders had a gut feeling, a cold dread that settled in their stomachs. When they rushed to the front and saw the three ominous characters "FFF" emblazoned on the shields of these guys' upper bodies, everyone knew, with a sickening certainty, that their bad premonition had come true.

Fire!

Raging, searing fire!

More convenient, more terrifying flamethrower equipment, wielded by more numerous, more intensive flamethrower soldiers. It was a nightmare come to life.

The death flame belt, a wall of pure, incinerating heat created by hundreds of flamethrowers, blocked the Horde's only escape route, turning it into a fiery inferno.

And the most disgusting thing, the cherry on top of this hellish sundae, was that the shield connected to the can on their backs helped those guys block most of the throwing weapons, making them virtually impervious to axes and spears.

Want to leave?

Sure! But please, take a good roasting first, a fiery baptism you won't soon forget.

Grom almost ground his teeth into dust, his jaw clenched so tight it ached. He had no choice but to let the already dwindling Blackrock Clan warriors, his most loyal and hardened fighters, take the lead, charging headfirst into the inferno.

On the other hand, Orgrim's attack also suffered a severe setback, a punch to the gut that left him reeling.

Before the battle, for some reason, Gavinrad had a brain spasm, a moment of pure, unadulterated idiocy. He'd seen Alleria defeat thousands of troops with a single flag last time, and in his thick skull, he thought, "Hey, I can do that too!"

Even though Duke had practically begged him not to, this guy was just plain crazy, insisting on a death wish. As a result, thousands of tribesmen, a green wave of fury, chased after Gavinrad, hacking and slashing at him, and Duke, watching the whole ridiculous spectacle, was almost laughed to death. He had to bite his tongue to keep from bursting out in hysterics.

If this guy wasn't a paladin, with skin thicker than a rhino's hide and a short period of invincibility that was practically cheating, Gavinrad would probably be a greasy stain on the battlefield. Watching Gavinrad commit suicide by Horde in front of the northern camp was, Duke had to admit, quite entertaining.

Duke looked at Alleria beside him, a playful curl of his lips. "Why, with such a small number of people," he teased, "are you confident you can deal with more than forty thousand elite tribesmen? Are you feeling lucky, punk?"

Alleria, unfazed, flicked her slender, elegant fingers, her beautiful golden hair flying in the wind like a battle banner. She gave Duke a provocative look, a challenge in her eyes. "Who do you think I am?" she retorted, her voice brimming with confidence. "I am Alleria Windrunner! A heroine who is destined to be remembered by the entire Alliance! A legend in the making!"

"Yes, yes!" Duke chuckled, putting his hands up in mock surrender. "You got me. You're the best."

Walking down the simple wooden wall of the camp, Duke looked back at Alleria and her three sisters, standing proudly at the gate, their figures silhouetted against the chaos of battle.

Each of the four sisters had her own strengths, her own unique brand of awesome. For an ordinary person to have just one of them as a minister, a loyal subordinate, was a blessing, a stroke of luck they'd earned in a previous life. And here he was, Duke, who had somehow managed to bag the entire Windrunner family, a whole set of legendary heroes.

When he thought about it, he felt like he was exaggerating, but then again, was he really?

Looking at Alleria's sexy back, the curve of her spine, Duke suddenly remembered a saying: "Gold will always shine." And Alleria, he knew, was pure gold.

Orgrim's main host, a massive tide of green, charged forward, a roar of fury on their lips.

Then they were hit head-on by the high elf ranger troops, a volley of arrows that seemed to materialize out of thin air.

"Elf Ranger!" The leading orc commander bellowed, his eyes widening in recognition as he saw the opponent's signature archery posture. Immediately, the orcs instinctively adopted a variety of desperate means to protect their vital points, raising shields, ducking, weaving.

After experiencing the Battle of Quel'Thalas, even if these orcs had never faced the elven rangers directly, they still knew, deep in their bones, that these elven rangers, with their utterly unreasonable, almost supernatural archery skills, were the living nightmare of all orcs.

Be it trolls or orcs, they were all races with incredibly strong vitality. If they weren't shot in the vital parts, they simply wouldn't die right away. They were tough as nails.

In the early days of Elwynn Forest, there were many orcs who continued to fight with hundreds of arrows stuck in their bodies like porcupines, a gruesome sight that could easily scare humans out of their wits.

It's different now.

A green light flashed, almost the same color as the grass, and the arrow, instead of flying straight, actually hit the shoulder armor of an orc who was charging, then, with a sickening thwack, refracted through the unlucky guy's neck, and then, with a spray of flying blood, hit the eye socket of an orc directly behind him. Two birds, one arrow.

For example, a powerful orc swordsman, a hulking brute, knocked away an arrow shot straight at his face with a single, powerful blow of his sword, only to find, to his utter horror, that the deflected arrow had killed an orc companion standing innocently on his right. The elves weren't just shooting arrows; they were playing billiards with death.